The Limit ii\ Light Equipment 
By WINFIELD T. SHERWOOD 
T HE popple leaves were shivering, but that 
did not signify; they are always shiver¬ 
ing. The maple leaves turned their light 
green bottoms up to a cold east wind, and held 
them there all day; that did signify. It signified 
that trout fishing was 
poor, and that along 
every well-known stream 
groups of discontent¬ 
ed men were huddled 
around stoves or bunch¬ 
ed on the sunny sides 
of houses,, grumbling. 
Robert Bruce half 
raised himself from the 
couch in Mrs. Turner’s 
sitting room and threw 
the magazine he had 
been reading spitefully 
from him. 
“Have some more 
magazines, Robert?” 
and Jini Curtis, lying 
at full length upon the 
floor, reached up the 
reddest covered one in 
the pile of a half dozen 
which had been bought 
from the train boy on 
the day of arrival, two 
weeks before. 
“No, I don’t want 
any more magazines,” 
Robert snapped. “These 
modern stories don’t 
amount to shucks. A 
few artistic contortions 
and a squirt or two of 
gush is all there is to 
them. Wish I had something of Scott’s here.” 
Jim rolled over and over upon the floor until 
he arrived at Mrs. Turner’s center table. There 
he pawed among the collection of subscription 
books and holiday reminders until he brought 
forth a cushiony volume done in russet leather, 
which looked as if it was longing to have a gilt 
“Merry Xmas” carelessly diagonaled across its 
front. 
“Here’s ‘The Lady of the Lake,’ ” he called. 
“Give it to me,” and Robert divided the effort 
by reaching as far as he could without getting 
up. “Now, that is something like; I always take 
a copy of this book into the woods with me. 
My! what good times old Captain Benson and 
I have had with it.- He’d come over to my camp 
every day when we couldn’t hunt, and we’d sit 
there and read ‘The Lady of the Lake’ and eat 
Limburger cheese all the afternoon.” 
Now, there was nothing the matter with the 
magazines, so far as Robert Bruce or any of 
* _ 
ROBERT BRUCE ON A SNAKE HUNT. 
the others in the party knew; in fact, it was his 
monthly habit to read the fiction in all of them. 
It was just bad weather that ailed him. 
The party had struck two full weeks of the 
backlash which occurs in a late season. It was 
one of those seasons which seem to slip a cog 
somewhere along in April or May, and have to 
make their whole run to fall a fortnight behind 
time. There had been some fishing weather 
during their stay, but it was mostly by fits and 
starts. 
Robert Bruce had a little extra grievance of 
his own which he could not easily forget. He 
was such a faithful disciple of “light equipment” 
that he had figured things down to nothing and 
up on the other side. The company started 
from home on May 25, and Robert selected his 
underclothing according to the calendar, regard¬ 
less of the fact that there was frost in the air. 
A decision had to be made between carrying 
flannel shirts or just carrying a picture of them. 
His personal opinion would have led him to de¬ 
cide in favor of the picture, but strong maternal 
advice prevailed, and gauze was arrived at as 
a compromise between the two. He argued in 
this manner: “It’s only six days to summer; I 
won’t freeze in six days, and in summer it’s time 
for gauze, anyhow.” As the cold snaps con¬ 
tinued, he had put on 
one garment over an¬ 
other, until now he was 
clothed four shirts deep 
»' and shivering at that. 
Indian-like, old Billy 
had stood for more than 
a half hour, gazing from 
one of the back win¬ 
dows down on the 
Esopus, where patches 
of cold-looking wrin¬ 
kles chased each other 
across every little bay. 
Finally he wheeled 
about, and coming 
across the room, made 
one claw at the couch 
which landed Robert 
Bruce and “The Lady 
of the Lake” in the cen¬ 
ter of the floor. Then 
he grabbed Jim by both 
arms and lifted him 
with such a vise-like 
grip that his victim 
yelled: 
“Quit! you old bear; 
you are breaking my 
arms.” 
“Now, what was that 
you called me?” Billy 
asked, holding Jim at 
arm’s length and grin¬ 
ning at him. “I’m no bear. What made you think 
I was a bear? And I’m not hurting you. It’s 
your imagination. You just think you’re being 
hurt,” and he pinched a little tighter, while Jim 
squirmed and twisted. 
Nimble Henry, knowing whose turn was com¬ 
ing next, opened a crack in the door, and sliding 
out through it, was soon going down the road 
with a rifle over his arm. 
“There!” said Billy, releasing Jim and look¬ 
ing from the window. “There goes trouble for 
the woodchucks. Why don’t you fellows get up 
and stir around as if you had a little life in you, 
just as Henry does? If you want to do some¬ 
thing worth while, go up to the bridge and snare 
some of the water snakes. You run around 
